Page 3 of The Spy Wore Silk (Mrs. Merlin’s Academy for Extraordinary Young Ladies #1)

Chapter Three

R ed brick, green door.

Siena reined in her mount. And a brass knocker in the shape of a hawk’s head. The street was deserted, but she kept her face and weapons well under wraps as she rode around to the mews.

A soft rap, and a whispered word.

The door slid open. “You have made good time, given the storm.” A hand took hold of the bridle and drew the stallion into the darkness. Behind her, an iron bar dropped back into its brackets. “You encountered no problems on the journey?”

“None to speak of.” Siena swung down from the saddle.

“I am Oban. I’ll be handling the duties of groom and footman.” A flint struck steel, and in the first spark of light, she caught a glimpse of his profile, hard and jagged as the Scottish accent that burred his speech. The misshapen nose and scarred lips gave him the look of a man who had experienced his fair share of punches. So, too, did the fist holding the lantern. It was as huge as a ham hock, and the knuckles gave a menacing crack as they tightened on the handle. “I’ll take you up to meet Rose. She will see to your personal needs.”

Lord Lynsley was serious about security, thought Siena as she followed the hulking silhouette to a side stall.

“This way.” Oban kicked away the straw to reveal a trap door. “There are several other hidden passageways out of the house. I’ll show them to you first thing in the morning, along with a map of the quickest escape routes from the neighborhood.”

He said nothing more, save to point out the mechanics of the latches and locks as they passed through the narrow tunnel into the townhouse cellar. Siena welcomed his reticence. She was in no mood to answer any further questions about her midnight journey.

Rose proved to be as quietly efficient as her compatriot. A plain, middle-aged woman with sharp features and a brusque step, she wasted no time in pleasantries. “A tour of the residence can wait until morning. No doubt you are anxious for a few hours sleep,” she said as she took Siena’s sodden cloak and hung it by the cellar stairs. “Follow me.”

As they passed through the paneled hallway, Siena glimpsed several of the rooms. They were small, but opulently furnished in a mix of plush velvets and jacquards. Garnet and ruby were the dominant colors, accented with a profusion of gilded decorations that reflected the current fad for all things Egyptian.

Accustomed to the spartan simplicity of the Academy, Siena found it a bit overwhelming. But as she rubbed at her eyes, she reminded herself that from now on, everything about her must be designed to draw notice.

Rose led the way up a curved staircase of polished mahogany to the third floor. Crossing the carpeted landing, she opened the far door.

A fire had taken the chill out of the bedchamber, the pillows were plumped upon the carved tester bed and a nightrail—a lacey confection befitting her new persona—lay neatly folded atop the turned-down silk sheets.

“A bath, my lady?” Wisps of steam, redolent with the lush perfume of jasmine and clove, were already rising from a tub set by the Oriental screen.

Siena nodded, suddenly aware that her fingers could scarcely keep a grip on her scabbard. But her shivering was not all on account of the wet clothing clinging to her body or the bone deep fatigue. The stranger’s touch still lingered on her cheeks, her lips . . .

“And a glass of brandy, if you please.”

It took only a few minutes for the spirits and the last buckets of hot water to arrive. She waited until she was alone to strip off her sodden garments and sink into the scented suds. Lud, the liquid heat felt delicious, flowing over and inside her. But it also stirred a more wicked warmth.

A rain-lashed gentleman with eyes as dark as sin. And yet, enveloped in his arms, she had experienced a strange sense of comfort. For an instant, she had embraced his strength, melting to his kiss rather than fighting it. He had felt reassuringly solid beneath her hands. His wind-roughened mouth had been surprisingly gentle. Even his gruff growl had offered a measure of safety.

You have nothing to fear from me.

Recalling his touch, Siena skimmed her fingertips to the small hawk tattooed above her left breast. As one of Merlin’s Marauders, she knew better than to let girlish imagination take flight. A friend? They had none, save for duty, discipline and determination.

Siena set the glass to her lips, intent on turning her attention to a dispassionate assessment of her own performance. Yet another swallow of brandy did not quite chase the black-haired gentleman from her mind. She gave herself high marks for horsemanship—but so, too, did he deserve accolades. Indeed, he had ridden like the very devil, unswerving, unflinching in the face of the drenching darkness.

In command.

From his iron-fisted control of the reins and firm seat in the saddle, she guessed that he had some experience in the military. It would have been interesting to test her skills against him in some other equestrian maneuvers.

A sudden smile curved her lips. Lud, but there was no doubt that she had gotten the best of him with her unexpected acrobatics. She could hear Il Lupino’s exhortation echoing in her ears. Keep the enemy off balance. Not that she meant to think of the stranger as the enemy.

Not that she meant to think of him at all .

No more distractions. It was time to put all memories of the gentleman behind her, time to think of the challenges ahead. The mission, as sketched out by Lord Lynsley, called for discretion, but most of all deception.

Slanting a look at the silky nightrail, she felt a flutter of excitement at the idea of slipping out of her old skin and into a new one. Come morning, one of Merlin’s hawks would appear as a bird of a different feather. The rippling water stirred the scent of honeyed florals and musky spices. Heady with hints of powerful passions, hidden dangers.

All her training had been for just such a moment. The basic instincts of survival honed of its rough edges, sharpened to a sense of purpose by the Academy. As a small child she had battled blindly against brutal bullies. Sometimes she had won, sometimes she had lost. The harsh reality was that the law of the jungle governed the stews. Left unchecked, the strong could always dominate the weak.

But now she could truly fight back. With a purpose.

Lifting the sponge high overhead, Siena squeezed a drizzle of the water over her face. Any inner misgivings washed away with the last of the drops.

She couldn’t wait to spread her wings.

The Earl of Kirtland took another brusque turn before the blazing fire. Although the library occupied an entire floor of his London townhouse, he couldn’t help feeling caged in. Of late, he had experienced the same uncomfortable sensation each time he entered the outskirts of the city. But this time, he hoped the visit would be worth the aggravation. Since his arrival that morning in Grosvenor Square, he had been looking to confirm an intriguing rumor . . .

“Do stop pacing like a bear with a thorn in his arse.” Deverill Osborne looked up from the book he was perusing. A friend since their first days at Eton, he was the only one of his acquaintances who dared tease him in such a familiar fashion.

Kirtland reluctantly took a seat at the reading table. “Have a care with that, Dev. It’s worth a bloody fortune.”

Osborne casually flipped another page. “Seeing as you are richer than Croseus, you can well afford it if I spill my claret over the gold-leafed illuminations.”

“But you could not.” Kirtland quickly drew the leatherbound volume back across the velvet display cloth. “For I should slice out your lungs and liver and chop them into mincemeat.”

“Come now, it’s only a book.”

“And the Magna Carta is only crinkled parchment and a dribble of ink,” growled the earl.

“I take it you are going to tell me what makes it worth all the fuss.” Grinning, his friend added another splash of wine to both of their glasses. The opposite of the earl in both looks and manner, Osborne was fair-haired and fun-loving. His breezy charm and sunny disposition made him a favorite within the highest circles of Society—especially the ladies. And yet, despite all outward differences, they were more alike than most people guessed.

“Trying to educate you on the fine points of bibliography is a waste of breath. The only pages you bother to read are those of the betting book at White’s.” Kirtland exaggerated a pained grimace, though he knew very well that his friend was not nearly so shallow as he pretended to be. “However,” he continued. “Even you ought to appreciate its exquisite beauty.” His sarcasm softened as he looked down at the delicate brush strokes and jewel tone colors. “This is a rare fourteenth century Burgundian Psalter, illuminated by the monks of St. Sebastian Abbey. To my knowledge, there are only two other examples of their art in all of England.”

“Indeed?”

“And word has it that they may both be coming up for auction in the next few months.”

“Ah, so that is what brings you to London at the height of the Season?” Osborne eyed the earl from over the rim of his wineglass.

He nodded. “That, and the quarterly meeting of The Gilded Page Club. We have several important acquisitions to consider for our collection.”

“What is it that the six of you do inside the confines of your club townhouse?” His friend cocked a brow. “And by the by, is that hideous golden knocker meant to be a serpent?”

Kirtland allowed a small smile. “A bookworm.”

“One of you has a rather twisted sense of humor.”

“Actually, we are all quite serious about scholarly pursuits. As for what we do . . .” His fingers traced over the corded leather and gold leaf lettering. “We meet over the course of a week each quarter in order to share our research and exhibit the latest additions to our own private libraries. In addition, we review what rarities are coming up for sale, both here and abroad. Occasionally we add to the Club Collection.”

“Who else is a member?”

“Dunster, Fitzwilliam, Winthrop, Leveritt and Jadwin.”

“The devil you say.” Osborne made a face. “The six of you certainly make odd bedfellows. How long have you been part of the club? I don’t recall you having mentioned it before.”

“We are not in the habit of discussing scholarly matters,” replied Kirtland dryly. “As for The Gilded Page, I was invited to join two years ago, to fill the spot left vacant by the death of Lord Woodbury.”

“The fellow probably expired from sheer boredom,” quipped Osborne. “I can’t quite picture how you rub together very comfortably with the others.”

“One does not have to be on intimate terms with a man to enjoy discussing books and art.”

“Sounds dreadfully dull.” His friend toyed with the ends of his cravat. “Skip tomorrow evening’s meeting and come with me to Lady Sefton’s masquerade ball.”

Kirtland’s reply was somewhere between a snort and a snarl. “You know damn well I have no intention of appearing in Society.”

“Your absence only encourages the rumors. People repeat the gossip surrounding your military courtmartial, and it grows more twisted with each telling. They say you betrayed a sacred trust and are a loose cannon.” A pause. “Just waiting for the slightest spark to explode.”

“I couldn’t care less what whispers are making the rounds of the drawing rooms.”

Osborne lifted a brow but remained tactfully silent.

“Let them talk.” Kirtland turned away from the candlelight and carefully squared the leather binding upon the velvet cloth. Wagging tongues, razored teeth. Was it any wonder that he much preferred books to people?

His friend waited for some moments before offering another comment. “Each passing word only distorts the truth.”

The earl laughed harshly. “Since when has the ton cared for the truth? Society finds scandal far more entertaining.” He gestured at his library shelves. “If you wish to find anyone interested in that concept, you will have to search out the writings of Plato or Aristotle.”

“Have they also penned a chapter on cynicism?”

Despite the show of insouciant wit, Osborne could be quite perceptive. Sometimes too much so.

“I am in no mood for a lecture, if you don’t mind.”

“Still, I feel obliged to voice my concern. I would hate to see you become a hermit, bloodless and bitter. Or a monk.” His friend’s stare was like a knifepoint probing against a raw spot. “Speaking of which, is it true that you gave Adrianna her congé?”

Kirtland felt himself flush. “She was becoming too demanding.”

“Ah. You mean she wished to see you on occasion?”

“I am not quite as bloodless as that,” he replied, trying not to sound too defensive.

He thought for a moment of mentioning his encounter with the midnight Valkyrie, but decided that the truth would sound stranger than fiction. Or, for that matter, more sensational than any of the gossip swirling through Society. His lips quirked on recalling that strange interlude. Never again would he accuse Mrs. Radcliffe, the famed novelist, of possessing an overwrought imagination.

“Still, you ought to leave the cozy confines of Winchester Hall more often. It’s important to know what is being said.”

Something about his friend’s tone cut short his musings. “What the devil is that supposed to mean?”

“A bit of friendly advice is all.” Osborne rose and moved to the mantelpiece. “Since we are speaking of truth, James, the fact is that Lord Lynsley was asking me about you the other evening. Discreetly, of course, but the question of loyalty to King and Country came up.”

The earl felt his jaw go rigid. “You doubt my loyalty?”

“Not for an instant.”

Kirtland slowly let out his breath. Osborne was his closest friend. Perhaps his only friend. And though he would never admit it aloud, the slightest hesitation would have cut him to the quick.

“But for all his outward affability and supposedly minor position in the ministry, I don’t underestimate the marquess’s influence. Or his intelligence—in every sense of the word. Is there any reason he might think you involved in some intrigue?”

“Intrigue?” Kirtland made a face. “Oh, quite right—I am conspiring with my sheep to corner the English wool market.” He raked a hand through his hair. “In case it has been forgotten, I am retired from active duty. My life is not nearly so interesting as the two of you seem to imagine.”

“Hmmm.” Osborne’s chuckle faded to a more serious sound. Looking puzzled, he paused and propped a boot on the fender. “I admit, it seems odd. And yet, I suggest you have a care as to the activities and company you mean to seek out in Town.”

“Very well—no rolling barrels of gunpowder down the corridors of Parliament or taking tea with Marshall Soult.”

“I’m not joking. Try not to stray from the ordinary. You already have a reputation as a dangerous man. One who lives by his own rules.”

“And why shouldn’t I? The rules of Polite Society are naught but a collection of pompous platitudes mouthed by hypocrites.”

“Damn it, James.” A slap to the marble mantel echoed the exasperated oath. “I am trying to help. Yet you refuse to defend yourself and your honor.”

“I did nothing wrong. It was Colonel Hartland who betrayed a spineless lack of honor by refusing to speak up in support of my actions. By overriding General Darymple’s orders, I saved the lives of my men, and were I to be courtmartialed a hundred times over, I would make same decision every time.”

“I agree that Hartland was wrong to renege on his promise of support,” replied Osborne. “He should have stood up for your decision in spite of Darymple’s wrath, rather than leave you at the last moment to bear the brunt of it alone. He was weak, and afraid for his own position. But the fact is, a bit of compromise on your part might have avoided the whole ugly affair.”

“I am at peace with myself. That is all that matters.”

“Are you really at peace?”

Kirtland turned his gaze to the crackling coals.

“Unlike the pages of your books, the world is not black and white, but an infinite range of greys,” continued Osborne. “All I am saying is try to temper your lofty principles with a touch of down-to-earth pragmatism. It does no harm to keep some of your more outspoken opinions to yourself.”

“I—I shall try.”

But the earl’s words had little conviction behind them. Compromise never came as easily to him as it did to others. Perhaps that was why he much preferred living alone.

“Be assured that I have learned my lesson,” he muttered. “These days, I do not go looking to stir up trouble. Aside from you and the members of The Gilded Page Club, I have no intention of associating with anyone.” He traced the intricate pattern of gold tooling on the leather binding. “Bloody hell. It’s not as if I can get into much mischief discussing the artistic merits of incunabula with a group of book collectors.”

A deft twist of the hairpin freed the last few curls of the topknot, allowing them to fall in artful disarray.

“You are very adept with your hands, Rose.” Siena eyed the effect and allowed a small smile. The maidservant’s fingers, though small and rather stubby, possessed a nimble grace. No doubt she was equally skilled at handling a blade or a picklock if need be.

“Thank you, milady.” The woman’s voice had the same clipped precision as her movements.

“I am no more a lady than you are,” murmured Siena, savoring the irony of the moment along with the last sip of black coffee.

“Best we play our roles, even in private.” The words betrayed no emotion. That in itself served as an oblique reminder that any personal attachments might only get in the way of performing their respective duties.

Siena nodded in understanding. The arrangement, however intimate, was purely about getting the job done.

Her gaze shifted to the schedule in her lap as Rose put the finishing touches on her toilette. A review of the escape routes with Oban at ten, Lynsley’s messenger was due to deliver the ministry dossiers at noon, a drive in Hyde Park at the fashionable hour of five . . .

She set the paper aside. “You may inform Oban I won’t need him to handle the ribbons this afternoon. I will put the team through its paces myself.”

“As you wish, milady.”

“And ask him to have a colored whip made up. Something along the lines of a shocking pink would do nicely.”

With its canary yellow lacquer set off by chartreuse upholstery and matching wheel spokes, the high perch phaeton was already sure to draw attention. But the more outrageous extravagances she could add to the trappings, the better. She meant to make a lasting impression.

“As for personal preparations, a bit of powdered gold mixed with the face powder will create an exotic glow. My lip color should be a deep scarlet, with matching ostrich feathers to top off the coiffure.” As Siena spoke, she made a mental note of the alterations she wished to make on her carriage dress. “Can you set a stitch, Rose?”

“Quickly and neatly,” came the prompt reply. “I served a short apprenticeship with one of the most fashionable French modistes here in Town.”

No doubt there was an intriguing story behind the facts, but knowing Rose was not likely to embroider on any details, Siena merely murmured, “Excellent.” Her brows, dark with kohl, drew together in a perfect raven wing arch. “Here is what I have in mind . . .”

The first part of the mission, as outlined by Lord Lynsley, called for her to make a grand entrance into Society. But the details on how to accomplish such a feat had been left to her discretion.

Or, more precisely—indiscretion. Siena intended for eyes to pop when she rolled down Rotten Row for the first time. And for tongues to wag. She had already chosen her nom de guerre —The Black Dove—and Oban would make sure that it was repeated often throughout the park. By midnight all of London would be abuzz with the news that a colorful new ladybird had come to roost in Town.

From there, the next move should go smoothly . . .

Six names. The dossiers would provide a more intimate acquaintance with the gentlemen in question. But facts were only a skeleton. To flesh out a true portrait, there was no substitute for a face-to-face meeting. More could be read in the blink of an eye or the frisson of a frown than in a ream of Ministry notes. Words, however eloquent, could say only so much. The nuances of sweat or of a voice turning shrill with fear were all too often lost in translation.

The sooner she saw for herself just who—and what—she was up against, the better.

Lynsley had left no doubt that time was of the essence. A terse written message had arrived at dawn from the marquess himself. A breach of his rules, to be sure, but one that he explained was unavoidable, given the gravity of the situation.

Her mission was even more important than before. A new theft had occurred. A letter—a frank appraisal of the Eastern allies from the Tsar, meant only for the eyes of Lord Castlereagh—had been stolen from the Minister of War’s private safe. If it were made public, the Russian leader would be forced to distance himself from England, with catastrophic repercussions for the efforts to halt Napoleon’s march into Prussia and Poland.

The marquess believed that the traitor still had the stolen dispatch in his possession. Siena’s assignment was now not only to discover the rogue lord’s identity, but also to retrieve the Imperial paper. No matter what the cost.

“Why do we bother riding in the park now, when we cannot manage more than a sedate walk,” groused the earl. He had forgotten what a crush of horseflesh and humanity crowded the wide swath of bridle path known as ‘Rotten Row’ at this time of day. The afternoon promenade was a daily ritual for the ton . It was as if all of fashionable Society turned out along the south edge of Hyde Park to breathe in the sooty air and latest ondits.

“The point of the exercise is not to fly by in a blur of sweating muscle and lathered flesh, but to be seen,” replied Osborne. “As you well know.”

Kirtland uttered an oath.

“And keep your damn voice down. We are trying to polish your image, a hard enough task without offending the ears of the Dowager Duchess of Roxburghe.”

“I doubt she could hear a troop of swearing Hussars if they rode up her backside . . . ” A quelling glance from his friend caused him to let the retort trail off.

Osborne tipped his hat to a trio of strolling ladies. “Do try to smile, James,” he murmured out of the corner of his mouth. “The countess is bosom bows with Sally Jersey. And as her daughters are entering the Marriage Mart with modest dowries, she will be inclined to speak favorably of you to The Dragon if given the least bit of encouragement.”

The observation earned yet another ungentlemanly comment, though this one Kirtland refrained from saying aloud.

“And look, there are Grafton and Stevens.”

The earl gave a grudging nod to his two former army comrades as Osborne beckoned them over.

“Are you in Town for the Season, Kirtland?” inquired Colonel Stevens.

“I’ve not yet decided on my plans,” replied the earl.

“Well, come around to Manton’s one morning if you wish to knock the rust off your shooting skills.”

“Hah!” Captain Grafton gave a gruff laugh. “Somehow I imagine Kirtland has kept his trigger well oiled.”

Though Grafton smiled, the earl thought he detected an undertone of resentment. He knew a number of his fellow officers thought he had gone off half-cocked in his confrontation with General Dalrymple. No matter that Darymple—who was mockingly referred to as “The Dowager” by his troops—had been recalled to London shortly after the earl’s courtmartial and relieved of his command. Kirtland had defied authority, and insubordination was far more frightening than incompetence to the military mind. And far more dangerous than enemy bullets or blades.

“Thank you for the invitation, but contrary to the Captain’s assumption, I am out of practice in the disciplines of warfare,” said the earl. “The only weapon I wield with regularity these days is a book knife.”

“Which, I might add, you looked ready to use in slicing out Grafton’s tongue,” murmured Osborne as the officers rode off to greet another group of gentlemen.

“Someone ought to trim him down to size. He has always possessed a puffed-up sense of his own importance.”

“Some might say the same of you.”

Kirtland felt his lips twitch. “Touché.”

“You owe me a forfeit then—you must try not to look so bored for the rest of the ride.” Straining to see through the crowd, Osborne stood in his stirrups. “I think I spy Lady Heffelin’s barouche up ahead. Come on, you will actually enjoy making her acquaintance. She is sharp as a tack despite her age, and a great reader of the classics?—”

A sudden commotion cut short his words. A high-pitched gasp was swallowed in a rumble of male applause.

All heads turned toward the Serpentine. The earl looked around to see a high perch phaeton tooling down the path. It was not just the color—a blinding yellow—that arrested his attention, but the fact that the driver was a statuesque female standing, rather than sitting, atop the box. There was no mistaking her sex, seeing as a great deal of it was on prominent display. Clad in a shockingly low-cut froth of champagne-colored silk, she held the reins in one chartreuse-gloved hand while brandishing a pink whip with the other. Quite competently, he noted. The flick of the long lash was keeping the team of snow-white stallions in perfect step despite the breakneck pace.

He and Osborne were not the only ones staring. A gaggle of young bucks on horseback were vying with several of their friends in curricles for the best vantagepoint. In the jostling, one of the animals spooked. Rearing in its traces, it bolted forward and the driver, a cow-handed dandy, lost control of the reins. Clutching at his seat, he managed to keep from falling beneath the wheels, but his shrill curses did nothing to slow his team’s wild flight.

“Bloody hell.” Kirtland saw there was no way of averting disaster. The two vehicles were headed on a collision course, with no more than a hair’s breadth of room for maneuvering. On one side of the graveled way was a group of children and their nannies playing at hoops. On the other was a line of close-set elm trees.

Someone screamed. A lady fainted. The earl braced himself for a crash. Splintering wheels, crushed limbs . . . But at the last second, the phaeton veered left and then sharply right, a deliberate maneuver that required an iron fist and steel nerve. Somehow, the lady remained perfectly balanced as the vehicle tipped onto one wheel and passed between the runaway curricle and the trees with scant inches to spare.

Cheers flew up from the crowd. Acknowledging the accolades with a jaunty salute, the lady righted her rig and kept on going.

“God, it looks as if she’s taking another spin around the lake.” Osborne began laughing. “I knew a fellow at Eton whose family motto was ‘Luck favors the bold.’ Perhaps the lady is a relation.” He watched her fluttering gold-threaded silks disappear around a bend in the carriage path. “If I hadn’t seen a female perform such a feat with my own eyes, I would dismiss all reports of this incident as utter nonsense. Or the delusions of an unstable mind.”

“As would I.” Kirtland shook off a strange sense of foreboding. “I, too, am reminded of an old aphorism—Lightening never strikes the same place twice. “

“Meaning?”

The earl shook his head. “Never mind. The essence would most likely be lost in translation.”